Chapter 3

Despite the hangover, I hurried through the bustling morning crowd. The sun was already scorching, and I was certain that by the time I reached the bank, my uniform would be drenched in sweat.

I work at a bank, specifically as a teller. The bank hired me the day after that coincidental encounter with Lazarus in the very same building. I had considered submitting a resignation letter when I discovered that Lazarus’ money was one of the supports for the bank.

This was serious, especially after our conversation in that expensive bar last night. I couldn’t recall exactly what I said—I was thoroughly intoxicated—but I remembered insisting that he wasn’t Zon’s father.

I don’t even know how I got home. He probably didn’t accompany me. If he had, Irithel might have either fainted or gone ballistic at the thought.

The important thing was that I was alive, and my son was still with me.

I had made up my mind. I wouldn’t resign. I needed this job badly—for myself and my son. How could I support my child otherwise? I couldn’t rely entirely on the money my parents sent.

Zon was at home; Laki had suddenly appeared and offered to look after him. I suspected that Lazarus’ brother had some ulterior motive, but I let him do as he pleased. How could I not? He always threatened to report me to his brother.

Speaking of Laki and money—he supported his nephew with toys, favorite foods, clothes, shoes, everything. Material things. Why only material things? Because I refused to accept his money.

I wanted to make it clear to him—and his incredibly arrogant brother—that I didn’t need their money. I had raised my child properly, through my own sacrifices.

Their money was trash.

I passed through the bank’s back entrance, a door reserved exclusively for staff.

Today, I’d receive my first paycheck. I planned to spoil my baby, buy him everything he wanted—but within reason. I didn’t want him growing up spoiled like his father. What he wanted should be what he deserved, not everything.

I could never forget Lazarus, no matter how hard I tried. How could I, when my son looked just like him? That’s why I let my son’s hair grow long. A boyish haircut would make him a carbon copy of his shameless father.

How did all this happen?

One night stand? No. It wasn’t a one-night stand when he did it three times with me.

To be honest, I didn’t really know him.

I shook my head, forcing myself to clear these thoughts. It was time to focus on work.

I turned the doorknob of the back entrance. The door swung open, and I stepped inside.

I was about to freshen up—maybe touch up my makeup or wipe away the sweat—when a coworker appeared in front of me.

“Calista Belmonte, right?”

I wasn’t exactly friendly. Even though I had been working here for a month, I still hadn’t made any friends.

“Yes. Why?” I asked formally.

The woman’s attire caught my attention: a pencil skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, a tight top leaving little to the imagination, topped with a short blazer. Meanwhile, I wore standard office attire—not too short, not too loose.

She turned away, answering my unspoken question. “The manager is requesting your presence in his office.”

How did she know? Maybe she overheard. She probably had just come from the manager’s office.

I didn’t bother fixing myself up and quickly made my way down the corridor to the manager’s office. I had spoken to him before—he was strict, not bossy or mean, just strict.

The corridor was plain: white-tiled floor, white walls, and a white ceiling. The manager’s office was at the far end. A room with lockers for our belongings was nearby; otherwise, I’d have gone there first.

Nervously, I knocked.

“Come in,” came the manager’s cold, baritone voice.

I wondered if he was about to deliver bad news—or perhaps give me my salary early.

I opened the door and stepped inside, offering courtesy. The room looked the same as when I first arrived: a wooden bookshelf in one corner, drawers for important files, a long gray sofa for visitors, and the manager’s desk with two chairs in front. A nameplate read:

Erosion Santos

“Have a seat, Ms. Belmonte,” he said formally.

He was professional and formal, almost intimidating if I overthought it. But he was human, just like me.

I took a seat across from his desk, the same uneasy feeling from my interview a month ago returning.

I studied his face and hands, which busily flipped pages. A newspaper lay on the side of his desk, next to a cup of coffee that was always present.

He wasn’t old—probably under thirty-five. Good-looking, wearing reading glasses and perfectly tailored office attire. Not fair-skinned, but attractive. Every girl here seemed drawn to him. From what I’d heard, he was still single.

He opened a drawer beneath his desk and pulled out two white envelopes.

One was the size of a bill; the other appeared to be a letter.

He slid the envelope containing the money across the desk to me.

“What’s this, Sir?” I asked cautiously, not taking it immediately.

“Your salary, Ms. Belmonte,” he replied.

I was baffled. “Pardon, Sir? Correct me if I’m wrong, but today isn’t the last day of the month—”

“Take it, Ms. Belmonte, because you’re fired.”

I froze. Fired? I couldn’t believe it.

“F-Fired? How?” I swallowed hard. Mr. Santos’ expression remained serious. “I mean, where did I go wrong? I do my job on time and often work overtime. So, what’s the problem?”

He didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he placed the second envelope before me.

He gestured for me to open it, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

I didn’t hesitate and unfolded the contents.

The first thing I saw was the company name printed on the letter:

Cavanaugh Finance Corp.